Good Sport Ironing Out Her Golf Game

It had been a year and a half since I had touched a golf club, although my husband, Ed, had mentioned almost once a week that we really should get out and play some. His heart attack, bypass surgery and recovery period had squelched all thoughts of golf for months, but his golf cleats had been itchy for some time, and I knew it.

That’s the only thing I can think of that could have influenced me to say yes when Glenn Hill, owner of Code 7 restaurant and bar in downtown Los Angeles, asked Ed and me to play in his foursome in the restaurant’s annual golf tournament. You might call it compassion. I call it stupidity. But I said yes.

We wrote out the check for $85 for our double entry, which included a grand prime rib dinner after the tournament at the victory celebration when trophies and door prizes would be awarded.

Days passed. Then panic set in. I got the clubs out of the closet and tried swinging the seven iron around a bit in the apartment. The seven iron was always my favorite. (Actually, I had seven lessons on the seven iron with a Southern golf pro at one time in my life. I gave up the lessons fearing I was going to wrap the seven around his neck if he said to me one more time: “Now you can do better than that, Miz Bobbie.”)

Four Other Women

I casually inquired of Glenn whether any other women were registered in the tournament and sighed with some relief when he said there would be four others among the 92 entries.

Ninety-two entries? A quick, silent calculation: four other women (who no doubt were of Nancy Lopez caliber and play once or twice a week) and 87 men--and me.

(I wasn’t stupid. I was insane!)

A week and a half before the tournament, I negotiated with the City Parks Department for a time when I could get a lesson with a pro. At one time I considered taking a day off work, but finally managed to get signed up for a night lesson.

Meanwhile, I set aside two other nights for the driving range. And to get some time on a fairway, I talked Ed into joining me for nine holes on the par-3 Los Feliz course on Saturday afternoon.

On the night of my lesson, I took a couple of practice swings with the pro, and he started to work on my game.

An hour later he was mopping his brow, but still friendly. I could feel what he was talking about in getting more hip action into the swing for greater distance. Sure, I wouldn’t walk away with the prizes, but I wouldn’t embarrass myself or Ed either.

Another Lesson

With such a show of progress, I signed up for another hour lesson two nights later.

My second lesson passed without the pro swearing or throwing a club, so I was encouraged enough to ask him if he thought I could break 120. He asked if it was a nine-hole tournament. I said no, and he pointed out that the lessons didn’t carry a money-back guarantee.

Friday night before the Saturday tournament, I went through my golf bag, organizing the tees in a little box, taking out old golf balls and leaving just the good ones in the side pocket. Old tissues, candy and gum wrappers were discarded; souvenir pencils from Sun Valley as well as Turkeyfoot Golf Course in Ohio were weeded out.

Four Old Score Cards

For psychological reinforcement, I held on to three or four old score cards on which I had tallied a nifty 52 or 53 on the nine holes at Roosevelt Golf Course.

I went to bed thinking maybe--just maybe--it wouldn’t be such a bad day. But to be on the safe side, I insisted that Ed and I leave home early enough to stop by the Griffith Park driving range to hit one warm-up bucket of balls before going to the tournament course in Montebello.

A year and a half is a long life for a golf glove that’s been wadded up in a golf bag, so I sprung for a new glove in the pro shop. Just a little touch of class, I thought.

Tee time arrived, and I addressed the ball. In non-tournament play, a friendly foursome would have granted me a mulligan (a second try) on that first shot, but not on this day. So I braved on, getting the second shot off in good form.

Then I was lying five just off the green of Hole No. 1 when I swung with my nine. We all stood in disbelief as the ball crossed the green and rolled into the hole. I looked to the heavens and thanked the Lord for looking after me. I took some little bit of credit too. After all, so far this day had cost me two evenings of golf lessons ($60), two buckets of balls for the lessons ($3.50), two times at the driving range ($3.50), the round on the par-three course ($2), an entry fee ($85--or half of that), a new glove ($7) and two weeks of anguish. I was entitled to a break.

With renewed confidence, I moved to Hole No. 2, where I shot a 15. That isn’t a typographical error.

On many holes I shot a 10 or 12. A few times I could take pride in a six of seven, but, man, was I bad. I mean bad.

Ed did what he could to keep up my morale, while I just tried to conduct myself with dignity. Glenn and his partner mostly ignored me, probably hoping that if anyone saw them on the same fairway with me they would think I was in another foursome and had a bad shot into their fairway.

The Round Was Over

Finally, the round was over. We went into the clubhouse, and everyone was friendly. That’s one nice part about golf; it isn’t a spectator sport except for the pro or big amateur tournaments. Scores weren’t posted, but I learned that the other women in the tournament had done reasonably well. And because I hadn’t asked for my final score, I could honestly say I didn’t actually know what I shot.

Evening arrived and the prizes were being awarded. The big guys went up and got their trophies. I applauded.

Yes, there was a booby prize. A trophy featuring the back half of a horse in glistening gold. Nothing really vulgar, mind you, just half of a horse--the back half.

Embarrassed? Yes, I was a bit as I accepted it, and I felt that all “those guys” were asking: “Why did she enter the tournament anyway?”

Perhaps some were. But we’ve become friends and played golf with one of them since then. A few others who never spoke to me before seem to go out of their way to say hello now.

And I say: Isn’t it lucky I saved one of them from coming in last?

Sometimes life is full of small sacrifices.